Little Dragon
by EluredandElurin
Summary: A Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings crossover written for Teitho in May where it did not place.


**Hi, guys! As always, I'd love your feedback. I was thinking about extending this into a hurt/comfort story about Malfoy and how he became the man he was in the epilogue. What do you think? Should I post it as a crossover, in the LotR archive or the Harry Potter one? Also, writing this story made me think, personally, about what Middle earth and fandoms in general have given me. Please leave a comment about what your favorite book(s) have given you!**

They came exactly a month after the Battle of Hogwarts. No doubt people had been clamoring for his parents to be jailed. To be thrown into Azkaban.

When they were gone, the only thing he knew to do, could do, was drown in pity and a bottle of Firewhisky. From there, confused feet took him into a- phone booth? Then down from there, through a corridor, into a doorway.

There she was, beautiful like a well crafted blade, whispering sweetly to him. The Veil.

He had heard of it before, of course. Maybe he wanted to just go through, have a peek. What could it hurt?

Its touch was electric, searing through him and leaving behind a curious feeling that wasn't pain, that wasn't pleasant. And then it was pain, only pain, ripping him in two. Finally, he was through, and it was over.

Not dead then.

All about him there were people, some carrying bandages or water or herbs, some wheeling carts and others just shuffling slowly.

"You, boy! Run and fetch some more bandages, double quick!" A tall, heavy boned woman pointed to the confused wizard. "Yes, you, that's right."

He blinked, then turned to find a bandage carrier, snatching half their load. "Come with me," the woman ordered.

She led him to a bed with a small, pale looking older man in it. His head was bleeding copiously. The woman took the used the soaked bandage off and put some strangely colored mixture on it with a fresh bandage. The young wizard shivered.

"Now boy, you can be my apprentice. You can call me Kaiya. Your quarters are in Fourth Block, come back here tomorrow when the sun rises.

He groaned as he came to the realization that he had to wake up soon if he didn't want to be yelled at and it was very cold in the morning. Splashing his face with cold water, he straightened his hair and hurried out to the mess hall.

Even after a week, barely anyone knew what he looked like and no one knew his name. That was just fine with him. The past had gone with his identity.

He finished eating quickly and went to relieve the night shift worker with "his" patient. She wasn't there, but he didn't blame her: she had to run about sometimes in the day when they were short-staffed.

But after a quick examination of the grizzled, older soldier, he found that the man was dead.

He had failed this person, only a single person, but a life nonetheless. Perhaps he had a wife, children, friends, parents, siblings, all who would miss the old man. Now he was gone. Why, of all times, did the night worker have to leave early? Did she not understand the gravity of the situation, to play a game with lives?

He sighed heavily, and went to find Kaiya.

She studied him from heavy-lidded eyes. "Take your man to the mortuary. They will keep him there for a time, but if the body is not claimed, it will be cremated and the ashes kept for the family. Take a cart, they should have some in the supply room."

When he returned with the cart, there was a little girl sobbing by the bed, wailing for the man to "Wake up, Papa!"

Something snapped in him then. "It's not just you who has parents that aren't good and well," he snarled, "and you would do well to remember that. Hush your whining, you little-"

A hand came down hard on his shoulder. "Whatever you are going to say, I would not say it if I were you."

He deflated, looking the girl in the eyes. "Look, little one, I'm sorry. Go and get your family, okay?" She nodded tearfully, scampering off.

He turned to see who had stopped him and started with surprise, hand flying to draw his wand. "Black."

"Here, they know me as Aragorn," he replied. He squinted for a moment, then his eyes grew dark. "And you are- ah, the young-"

"I'd prefer to just be a young healer's assistant. A new start, you know. How did you- what are you doing here?"

Aragorn smiled grimly. "It is complicated, to say the least. Come, let us go to my quarters and we can talk freely."

"What do you go by here?" Aragorn asked, sitting and stretching long legs out before him.

"People don't really notice me, but I like the name Altair."

"You've changed a good deal," Aragorn remarked. "Less snobbishness and more thoughtfulness. I like that."

Altair tilted his head in a so-so gesture. "There are no classes here to discriminate against, no one to please by doing it, so there is little point. And I guess I have learned that everyone has bad things going on in their life, that it isn't all about me."

"This place has certainly taught me many things," Aragorn conceded. "I believe that when I came through the Veil, there was a man alive who was an alternate version of me, so to speak. I became him and he me. There may not have been a version of you, since Men have been in Middle Earth for a very long time."

"Do you know how I could get home?" Home. The thought sent a tiny stab of pain through his heart.

"You would leave this place and its peaceful anonymity?" Aragorn asked curiously.

"I can still live the way I have learned to here back home, find some respect for myself. There is time yet. And I would like to see my parents when they come home from Azkaban." Altair took a deep breath, preparing to voice his fear. "If they ever do."

Aragorn surged to his feet. "Azkaban? Your parents in Azkaban?" He shivered, a shadow passing over his face. "And they went willingly?"

"We had no choice. Your side won the war, and they wanted their revenge. It's probably my fault, since the young heroes hate me so much."

"I doubt it is wholly your fault, since I know many people who wouldn't mind killing your parents." Aragorn smiled warmly. "Don't worry about it. I will see what I can do about getting you out of here."

Altair tossed and turned throughout the night, but at last he managed to fall asleep.

He was walking through a dark, columned room, and as he walked, he could see faint outlines of people meandering through the hall. They began to notice him too, notice how he was more substantial than them. Crying out, they clung to him as he struggled forwards, slowing at last to a stop.

"I'm sorry, but I cannot help you! Please, just let me through," he shouted. A few broke away regretfully and others, turning to look, bowed their heads shamefully and did the same.

At the end of the hall, he could make out a large throne, made of a rock like obsidian and tortured into intricate patterns. There was a large, man-like figure seated on the throne, tall enough to brush the faraway ceiling with his fingertips.

"Hello, child of the other world," the figure said. He stood and was engulfed in a ray of the moon's light. It revealed fine cheekbones and pitch black eyes under a dark cowl. "I am Námo, judge of the dead. The man known to you as Sirius Black has asked that his gift, to return to his world, be given instead to you. The only condition is that you give this to his godson and tell his friends that he is well." Námo held out what looked like the shard of a broken looking glass.

Altair took it. "He wishes to give up his own way home for me? Why would he, of all people give anything to me?"

Námo smiled slightly, pale lips turning upwards. "I do not pretend to understand men, child. Go now, through the door, and you will find yourself back in your world."

Though there were many doors in the hall, Altair felt that he knew which to take.

When he stepped through, there was no sensation, only a sense of rightness in his mind. It was night, but he could see wizards all about him. They shopped busily in what he knew to be Diagon Alley.

He left it, not ready to face the watching eyes always on him, and crossed to a small diner.

Sitting down, he picked up a menu and began to look through it. An angry voice cut through his thoughts.

"If y'ain't gon' buy nothin', y' gotta leave!"

"I'm sorry sir, but there's someone out there and-" a young woman said, looking ready to cry.

"No ifs, ands or buts about it, ma'am, and if'n you don't wan' ta leave, I'll call the cops on ya."

The wizard closed his eyes briefly. What kind of person was he going to be this time?

"Wait," he said, "She's with me."

"An' you're gonna buy somethin', right?"

"I'll have a cup of tea, and whatever she wants," he replied, putting a galleon down on the table, "if this will cover it."

"Yes, a' course," the clerk said, eyes shining with greed.

"I want a coffee," the girl called after him. Then she turned to the wizard. "Did you go to Hogwarts, by any chance? Because that looked like wizarding currency to me."

"Yeah," the wizard said, smiling. "You too? What's your name?"

"I'm Astoria Greengrass." She shook his hand amiably.

"Draco Malfoy," he replied, watching her carefully. She did not flinch, but just smiled.

"Pleased to meet you, Draco Malfoy."

 **Leave a review, pretty please?**


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